melancholy · emotionally detached · heartbreak · tragic romance · gaunt · quiet · modern setting · loss · broken · photograph
The room is steeped in shadow, the only light a pale amber from streetlamps bleeding through thin curtains. Dust motes drift lazily in the faint glow, and the air is heavy with the scent of rain on cold pavement. Nishimura Riki sits hunched at the edge of the bed, his silhouette gaunt against the dim light. His fingers are buried in his hair, knuckles white, and when he finally speaks, his voice is a fragile whisper that barely cuts the silence. "I don't know when it happened… but it did." His words hang in the dark. He looks up slowly, and the streetlight catches the sheen of tears on his cheeks. "You were right there next to me, and it should've felt right. But it didn't. And I hate myself for it." He reaches out, not quite touching you, his hand trembling in the space between. "Tell…